


the line i'd walk for you

by remy (iamremy)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dean hates Sam's depression beard, Episode Tag, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Pillow Talk, Post-Episode: s14e03 - The Scar, Shaving, Spoilers, Top Dean Winchester/Bottom Sam Winchester, Wincest - Freeform, mentions of Gadreel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 05:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16423643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: Dean's really fucking tired of that stupid beard.





	the line i'd walk for you

**Author's Note:**

> do you ever like, watch an ep, and you just HAVE TO write something for it? because that's pretty much what happened here. dean's comments about the beard, plus the fact that i'm really annoyed he didn't hug sam, are pretty much what led to this. i was like, ok, let's deal with the beard thing first, and then we'll get to the other issue. you didn't hug sam? FINE, IN MY FIC YOU'RE DOING MUCH MORE THAN HUGGING.
> 
> idk man, they shoulda hugged.
> 
> anyway, dean's wrong, the beard looked GOOD, but he doesn't like it, so i guess it's gotta go ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> title from _[walking the wire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1nv9br7P7g0)_ by imagine dragons. perfect wincest song tbqh.

The bunker is quiet when they get home, much to Dean’s relief. He’s tired, mentally _and_ physically, and he’s just not capable of dealing with so many people right now. It requires too much energy, energy that he doesn’t have, not when all he wants to do is crawl back into bed and sleep for a week.

Sam gets it, like he always does; he doesn’t really speak much, just says a soft “Goodnight, Dean,” right outside his door before making to go on towards his room. Dean grabs his wrist before he can take more than a step, however, and just shakes his head when Sam looks at him askance.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice is uncertain.

“Just… stay, okay,” Dean says, still holding his wrist.

Sam considers him for a moment, and then nods. “Okay, Dean. Sure.” He still looks a little confused, though, like he’s trying to figure out what Dean’s thinking.

Dean turns, uses his free hand to open his door, and then leads Sam inside, grateful that Sam doesn’t comment on the fact that he’s still got Sam by the wrist. There is a muffled _thunk_ when he dumps his bag at the foot of his bed, and then another when Sam’s bag lands beside his. “Sit,” he tells Sam, finally letting go of his wrist, and then crosses the room to close and lock his door.

He turns to find Sam still standing by his bed, looking awkward. “Uh—”

“Sit,” Dean repeats.

Sam sits.

Satisfied, Dean takes off his outer layers and tosses them onto his chair, and then heads for the sink. He is hyper-aware of Sam’s eyes on him, can almost hear his little brother thinking even from across the room. Sam doesn’t say anything, though, and so Dean doesn’t, either.

He washes his face, first, and then towels himself dry. He hangs up his towel, grabs another one, and soaks it in the hot water before wringing it out. Then he fills up a bowl, sets it aside, and extracts his straight razor and shaving cream from the cabinet behind the mirror. Only then does Sam speak.

“Are you _serious_?” he asks incredulously.

“Dead serious,” Dean answers, turning around to look his brother in the eye. “You’re getting rid of the damn beard, Sammy.”

“It’s not that bad!” Sam protests.

Dean throws the shaving cream at him, and he catches it, still looking annoyed as he puts it aside. “It _is_ that bad,” Dean tells him as he approaches the bed. “I don’t like it, okay.”

“Why not?” demands Sam, as Dean puts a towel on the bed, and then the bowl on top of it.

Dean shrugs. “I just don’t,” he says. “Now shut up, unless you _want_ to get nicked.”

With that, he holds out the second towel, damp with hot water. Sam stares at it, then at the bowl, and then up at Dean.

“Really? You wanna do this here? On your bed?” he asks. “That can’t be hygienic.”

“Well, that’s what the towel’s for,” Dean tells him, rolling his eyes. “Come on, Sammy, let’s get this over with.” He shakes the towel in Sam’s face.

Sam sighs, and then grabs it from him and begins wiping his face with it. “I think you’re overreacting,” he tells Dean, voice muffled. “My beard is fine.”

“We’re not having this argument,” Dean retorts. “I hate it, and it’s got to go.” While Sam’s wiping his face, Dean starts lathering up the shaving cream in the old, chipped mug he’s got for this purpose. He’s already soaked the brush while Sam was arguing with him, and now it’s nice and warm and damp.

“I’m done,” Sam says, putting the damp towel aside. “Dean—”

“Not hearing it,” interrupts Dean. Sam opens his mouth to argue again, but shuts up at once when Dean puts his left hand on his face, gently tilting it to one side.

“You’re really doing this, huh,” he says, his body absolutely still as he lets Dean brush shaving cream into his beard.

“Yep,” Dean says, popping the p. “I really am. Move your hair out of the way.”

Sam obeys, tucking it behind his ears so that it’s not falling in his face. Dean continues brushing, covering the beard with as much lather as he can, using his left hand to move Sam’s face this way and that, making sure he doesn’t miss even a single spot.

“Tickles,” Sam mumbles. His eyes are closed; he seems to have given in entirely, just letting Dean do as he pleases, and Dean’s pretty damn glad for it. He’d been expecting more arguing and protesting. It’s just like Sam to be difficult over the little things, just ‘cause he can.

“Okay,” Dean says when he’s done. He puts the brush down, back into the mug, and flips the razor open. “Stay still, all right?”

Sam opens his eyes to frown at the razor. “Are you sure it’s clean?” he asks.

Dean glares at him. “’Course it’s clean, Sam. I’m not an _animal_.”

Sam throws his hands up. “Okay, okay. Fine.”

Just to keep the bitching to a minimum, Dean makes a great show of finding an alcohol wipe to clean the razor with. Sam watches him do it, scowling, looking kinda funny sitting there with half his face covered in shaving cream. Dean chuckles a bit at the sight, and Sam’s scowl deepens.

“You keep making that face, it’ll get stuck like that,” Dean jokes, throwing the wipe when he’s done.

“Hilarious,” mutters Sam, crossing his arms and looking like a petulant child. “You’re so funny.”

“Damn right I am,” agrees Dean. Before Sam can talk, he slides his hand into Sam’s hair and grips it lightly. As expected, it shuts Sam right up. Grinning in satisfaction, Dean tugs gently at Sam’s hair, and Sam tilts his head to the right at once, left side of his neck exposed. Dean’s got a sudden urge to kiss it, which is an unexpected side-effect, but he’ll deal with that later. Right now he just wants to get rid of the stupid scruff.

He uses his thumb to stretch Sam’s skin and begins shaving, as slow and as careful as possible. Sam sits entirely still, barely breathing, and Dean notices he’s got both hands on his knees, gripping the fabric of his jeans so tightly his knuckles are white. Dean’s damn sure that if he lets his hand go lower and finds Sammy’s pulse, it’s gonna be thundering away.

But he doesn’t stop, just continues with the small, sure strokes, until Sam’s eyes fall closed again and he relaxes, hands loosening their grip on his knees. Dean rinses the blade and resumes, until the left side of Sam’s face emerges from underneath all that hair. Pleased, Dean surveys it for a moment, and then goes over it one more time until it feels completely smooth under his fingers.

Sam shivers at the sensation of Dean’s fingertips on his skin. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Dean takes it as his cue to continue. This time he doesn’t have to direct Sam to move; Sam tilts his head the other way, tucks his hair behind his ear because it’s fallen out, and then patiently waits for Dean to continue.

Dean repeats everything on the right side of Sam’s face, going with the grain, slower than he would on his own face because he doesn’t want to hurt Sam. Sam lets him do it, and Dean can’t help but notice how submissive he looks, sitting there silently, trusting Dean completely with himself. It makes something inside Dean stir, but he ignores it for now, choosing to focus entirely on the task he’s set himself.

Sam tilts his head up when Dean’s done with his face, exposing his Adam’s apple and the hollow in his collarbones, and Dean has to tear his eyes away from the sight. The only thing preventing him from just giving up and kissing Sam’s neck is the thought of Sam’s beard in his mouth, and the fact that he probably tastes like shaving cream at the moment.

He uses his free hand to stretch Sam’s skin and then begins working his way down his throat, still with the grain, still going painfully slow so that he doesn’t hurt Sam. If it was anyone else – hell, even if it was himself – there would have been at least a couple of cuts by now, but Sam’s doing an excellent impersonation of a marble statue, and Dean’s going at a snail’s pace and with all the focus and concentration of a nuclear scientist, and so far, Sam’s skin remains smooth and unbroken.

“Done?” Sam asks quietly when Dean takes a break to rinse the blade. He reaches up, touching his jawline with his fingertips.

“Not yet,” Dean replies, voice just a little hoarse. Sam, thankfully, doesn’t say anything, just nods and lets his hand fall.

Dean puts the razor aside and picks up the brush again, once more covering Sam’s face in lather in gentle, circular strokes. It doesn’t take that long this time, since there’s no hair to slow him down, and within a minute Dean’s got the razor again, and this time he goes against the grain.

He’s done within minutes. Before Sam can ask again, he says, “Just one more time, Sammy,” and rinses the blade.

“Okay,” Sam says. His eyes remain closed.

Dean repeats everything. Lather, shave, rinse. Sam’s skin is smooth and soft under his fingertips, distracting. Dean thinks he should be given an award of some kind for the self-restraint he’s exercising at the moment; it takes everything he has in him not to put the blade down and just jump Sam.

Finally he’s done; he rinses the blade one more time before handing Sam the now cool towel. Sam takes it and silently wipes his face down, while Dean begins cleaning up.

He can feel Sam looking at him as he empties the bowl in the sink and washes it before putting it aside. Sam’s gaze on him never fails to make the hair at the back of his neck rise, never fails to make his heart speed up. Sam doesn’t have to say a single word for Dean to know what he’s thinking, and now is no different. Dean takes his time, though, washes the brush and razor thoroughly before setting them aside, and then hands Sam his own aftershave.

“Here.”

Sam takes it. “Aren’t you supposed to sharpen the blade?” he asks as he begins applying it.

“Later,” Dean says with a dismissive shrug. He’s got more important things to do right now.

Sam hands him the aftershave when he’s done, and Dean puts it back before going and sitting down right next to Sam. Wordlessly he reaches out and touches Sam’s face, fingers sliding easily over smooth skin, Sam’s eyes fluttering closed at the touch. Smiling to himself, Dean leans in, closes his eyes, and kisses Sam.

Sam reacts immediately, kissing Dean back like his life depends on it. His hands are on Dean’s chest, fisted in Dean’s shirt, and Dean pulls him closer, burying his hands in his hair, tugging so that Sam’s head tilts back and Dean can deepen the kiss.

“I missed you,” Sam whispers against his lips when they stop to breathe. “So much.”

“I missed you too,” Dean admits. “Missed this.” He kisses Sam again, shorter this time, softer, and then opens his eyes. “Much better now,” he says with a grin, moving his thumb across Sam’s cheekbone.

Sam opens his eyes too, gives him a half-hearted glare. “I still think you were overreacting, it wasn’t that bad.”

“Oh yeah?” challenges Dean. “Then why’d you let me shave it off?”

“Because it’s _you_ ,” Sam says simply, and Dean’s breath sticks in his throat, levity vanishing.

Because it’s him, and it’s not Michael, and he can’t even deny the relief in his chest, reflected back at him in Sam’s eyes. Not for the first time, he remembers that while it had all been a blur for him, for Sam it must have been endless days of hoping and praying, of despair and failure.

“ _God_ , Sammy,” he breathes out, and kisses Sam once more.

This time he lets his hands wander, traveling down Sam’s neck to his chest, to his waist and hips. Sam makes a little noise in the back of his throat when Dean slips his hand under his shirt, and Dean takes the chance to deepen the kiss again. Sam lets him take control, lets himself be pushed back on the bed, until he’s lying on his back with his legs apart and Dean is on top of him, both of them still fully clothed.

Well, that can be fixed.

Sam looks up at him when they break apart to breathe, lips red and swollen, pupils blown wide, and he’s never looked more beautiful to Dean. “I missed you so much,” he says, and his voice cracks on the last word.

“I know,” Dean says, and unbuttons Sam’s jeans. “I know, Sammy, I know. Missed you too.” He divests Sam of his pants, and then Sam sits up to take his shirt off.

He’s lost weight, bones jutting out under bruised skin, and while it doesn’t really surprise Dean, he makes a mental note to deal with it later. It’s nothing a few good home-cooked meals won’t fix. He’s the cause of it, least he can do is make sure Sam gets some good food in him again.

Instead of commenting on it, Dean gets rid of his own clothes, and then pushes Sam back down again. Sam is warm under him, skin bumpy with gooseflesh, and Dean kisses his jawline before grinning down at him and saying, “See? Much better without the beard.”

“Will you shut up about the beard,” sighs Sam, but he’s working to suppress a smile.

Dean kisses him again. He’s forgotten how much he needed this, how addicting it is, until now; it’s been too fucking long, and he can’t remember most of it but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it acutely. And Sam, Sam remembers it, every moment of it, and he’s got to be feeling it just as much as Dean is, if not more.

This time when he comes up for air, he reaches out across Sam and gets his bedside drawer open. There’s a half-full bottle of lube still in there, untouched the way he last left it, and he grabs it before pushing his drawer shut and sitting up. Sam looks at it, and then he looks at Dean, and then he says, in answer to Dean’s silent question, “Yes.”

Short, simple, to the point, and yet Dean can already feel himself filling, getting hard just at the thought of getting to do this with Sam again. He leans in to press a kiss to Sam’s collarbone and then pops the bottle open, coating his fingers generously with lube.

Sam shudders when Dean touches him. “’S cold,” he mutters, drawing his legs up further.

“Give it a few,” Dean tells him, and pushes in.

Sam is just as tight and hot as Dean remembers. He hisses at the intrusion a little, and then his body relaxes, and Dean takes that as his cue to push in further, his free hand resting on Sam’s knee. He takes his time with it, preparing Sam like it’s their first time again, as slow and gentle as he can make it considering all he wants right now is to be inside Sam.

“You okay?” he asks, once he’s got two fingers in.

“Yeah,” Sam says, voice a little shaky. “I’m good. Keep going.”

So Dean does. Sam jumps when Dean finds his prostate, and then practically melts into the bed, fingers scrabbling at the sheets. He’s hard already, leaking precome onto his stomach.

“Do that again,” he demands, a little breathless.

“Bossy,” says Dean, but complies.

By the third finger Sam is a squirming mess, pulling at the sheets, his cock red and dripping. “Just get on with it, Dean, come _on_ ,” he pants, still surprisingly coherent. That’s got to change, Dean thinks.

He removes his fingers, his cock twitching interestedly at the whine Sam lets out. Sam watches him, skin flushed, eyes blown wide, as he positions himself and pushes in, unable to hold back a groan at the sensation.

Sam’s so fucking tight, the heat of it almost driving Dean insane. He’s squirming a little under Dean again, biting his lip in an attempt to stay quiet, and that makes Dean frown.

“No,” he says, “don’t do that, Sammy. I wanna hear you.”

Sam just nods, lip red where he’s been worrying at it, and then squeezes his eyes shut as Dean bottoms out.

“Okay?” Dean asks, just to make sure.

Sam nods. “Yeah,” he says, and his voice is shaking. Good. “Move.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Dean grumbles, but moves anyway. Sam only has a moment to look pleased about it; then Dean thrusts back in again, and Sam lets out a loud moan.

“That’s it,” Dean tells him encouragingly, “that’s what I wanna hear, baby.”

“You know we’re not the only ones living here now, right?” Sam asks, wrapping his arms and legs around Dean and pulling him in closer.

Dean braces himself on his elbows on either side of Sam’s head, and leans down to kiss him before saying, “I know.” He grins down at the look of fond exasperation on Sam’s face. “I just don’t give a crap.”

“You are incorrigible,” Sam accuses, and then moans again when Dean thrusts into him. “Absolutely incorrigi—oh fuck, do that again.”

“Gotcha,” says Dean with a wicked grin, and complies. He brushes against Sam’s prostate and Sam’s legs tighten around him, heels digging into his thighs.

“Room’s not soundproof,” Sam reminds him, voice shaky.

“Don’t care,” Dean says shortly.

“People might hear,” Sam says.

“Let them,” Dean replies decisively, and then snaps his hips in a way that makes Sam let out a really loud noise.

“Fuck,” says Sam. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Damn straight,” Dean replies proudly, and increases the speed of his thrusts.

There’s not much talking after that; Sam is unrestrained now, making as much noise as he wants, and it drives Dean crazy, making heat pool in his stomach. It takes all of his willpower to maintain a steady pace when all he wants is to fuck Sam into the mattress, but that would mean it’s over in a few minutes, and that’s the opposite of what Dean wants.

Sam unwraps an arm from around Dean and sneaks it in between their bodies, but Dean centers his weight on one elbow and frees up one of his hands to grab it. “No,” he orders, and Sam withdraws his hand.

“And you call _me_ bossy,” he complains.

Instead of replying, Dean just grins and drives in faster, and Sam throws his hand over his mouth, face reddening as he tries to muffle the noises he’s making.

“I told you don’t do that,” Dean reminds him.

“Dean,” Sam begins, but can’t continue, not when Dean’s pounding into him in earnest now, coaxing out those sounds he loves, even if Sam’s embarrassed to make them.

“Don’t – wanna – hear – it,” he says, interjecting each word with a thrust, and Sam gives up, arm going back around Dean’s shoulders, head thrown back against the pillows and neck exposed.

Dean leans in to nip at Sam’s jaw and the side of his neck, and sucks until it reddens. There’ll be a nice mark there in a while, and Sam’s going to have a hell of a time trying to hide it, but Dean can’t really bring himself to care about any of that. Nothing else matters when Sam is under him like this, warm and tight, somehow sin and Heaven personified at the same time.

Sam’s cock is between them, heavy and leaking, rubbing against Dean’s stomach with every thrust and making Sam moan, the sound escaping through clenched teeth, muffled into Dean’s skin. Dean makes love to him like it’s their first time again, and Sam moans like it too, whimpering and whining under Dean, driving him absolutely fucking _nuts_ with it.

This is the one thing that kept him sane, while Michael had him; knowing that no matter what, he’ll always have Sam. Michael could do whatever he wanted, but he couldn’t change the fact that Sam was always going to come for him, was always going to find a way to get his big brother back. He’s always going to be the light at the end of the tunnel for Dean, and there is nothing anyone can do to change that. And whoever wants to try is most welcome; Dean hasn’t killed anything really violently in a while, not counting Lucifer.

“Dean,” Sam gasps out, interrupting his thoughts, “Dean, I’m close—”

“Okay, Sammy,” Dean says. “All right.” He’s close too, can feel it building within him, pooling in his stomach and legs, liquid heat—

Sam comes with a shout, spurting hot and wet between them, and his whole body tightens around Dean. Dean’s hips begin stuttering, making it harder to maintain a steady rhythm, but he focuses, does his best, thrusts once, twice, thrice, and Sam is keening under him from overstimulation—

Dean’s mouth closes around Sam’s shoulder and he bites down as he comes, muffling his shout into Sam’s skin. Sam whimpers, cock twitching between them as Dean fills him up, and then collapses on top of him, spent.

A moment passes, and then another, and then Sam whispers, “Gross,” and Dean has to laugh.

“Never change, baby,” he says fondly, making himself rise. Best clean this mess up now, before it gets into his sheets and becomes flaky and annoying.

Sam whimpers when Dean slides out of him, curling up a little at the sensation. Dean pauses in the act of getting up, mesmerized by the sight of his come spilling out from Sam, dripping down his skin. “Fuck, Sammy,” he says, unable to look away. “You look fuckin’ amazing like this.”

Sam just blushes – so typical – and buries his face in the pillow. “Don’t be weird,” he mumbles.

Dean just rolls his eyes even though Sam can’t see, and slaps Sam’s ass as he gets to his feet. Sam groans into the pillow. “Asshole,” he complains.

“You love it,” Dean teases him. He staggers to the sink; his legs feel like jelly after what has to be one of the top five orgasms of his life. Sam turns around to watch him go, drawing his legs up halfway to his chest, one arm tucked under the pillow.

Dean soaks a towel in the sink before wringing it out, making sure there’s no excess water dripping from it. He cleans Sam up gently, wiping his belly first until it’s clean and then tapping his hip until he turns over and lets Dean clean his ass. Then he tosses the towel back into the sink – it hits the ceramic with a wet _thwop_ – and gets back in bed next to Sam.

“That was good,” he says, grabbing the covers and spreading them over both of them.

“Yeah,” says Sam, and smiles at him. He’s still a little red, skin flushed and sweaty, hair a mess, and Dean’s sure he doesn’t look much better.

He leans in and kisses Sam, takes his time with it, long and sweet. Sam makes a small sound in the back of his throat that absolutely drives Dean insane, has his cock twitching in interest again, but he’s tired and he’s not as young as he used to be, and round two can wait till morning.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Sam says quietly when they part.

“Me too,” Dean says. “Wouldn’t wanna be anywhere else but here.” He brings his hand up to caress Sam’s face. “Especially now that the stupid beard’s gone.”

“Enough about the beard!” Sam groans, closes his eyes. “Just let it go, Dean!”

Dean laughs. “No, I’m not going to, ‘cause it was _stupid_ ,” he says happily. “You’re welcome, by that way.”

Sam opens his eyes to glare at him. “If you’re expecting thanks—” he huffs.

“Don’t bother,” Dean tells him with a grin.

The mark on Sam’s neck is darkening already. It makes a good pair with the bite mark on his shoulder, and Dean soothes it with a brush of his thumb, making Sam shudder. “How’m I s’posed to hide that?” he asks, trying and failing to look pissed.

“Don’t,” Dean says. “I want everyone to see it. Want them to know you’re mine, _Chief_.”

Sam reddens again. “Don’t,” he groans. “I don’t wanna be called that, _ever_ , please just _don’t_.”

“Whatever you say, Chief,” Dean replies with a smirk, and then groans when Sam knees him. “Bitch.”

“Jerk,” says Sam at once. “You started it.”

“Whatever,” mutters Dean, not willing to concede.

There are a few moments of silence after that, and then Dean says, pushing his fingers into Sam’s hair, “I know I said that everything that’s going on is because of me, because I said yes to him, but you know what, Sammy?”

“What?” Sam asks, looking up at him, eyes wide. His hair is silk in Dean’s fingers.

“If it meant saving you, I’d do it all again,” Dean admits. “I wouldn’t even hesitate.”

Sam exhales slowly through his nose, closing his eyes for just a moment. “Dean…”

“Don’t,” Dean says at once. “I would, Sammy.”

Sam says nothing, just continues looking at him, and there is this sadness in his eyes that Dean can’t really quantify. “What?” he asks, but Sam doesn’t reply, and it hits him a moment later.

Gadreel. That whole mess. That whole fucking mess, and now he knows firsthand what he put his brother through. Dean’s heart sinks; Sam’s words ring through his head again. _Same circumstances, I wouldn’t_.

All those times he’s thought of those words, of the look on Sam’s face when he said them, and it’s only just now that he finally understands them.

(Drowning, and struggling for air, and not getting any—)

He closes his eyes, despairing; what has he done to his brother?

“Am I worth that, Dean?” Sam asks, and Dean opens his eyes, stunned. Sam’s eyes are a little wet, but his gaze is resolute.

“Of course you are,” Dean tells him, hand stilling in his hair. “Of _course_ you are, Sammy—”

“Knowing what you know now?” Sam interrupts. “How it feels?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Dean says emphatically. “I meant what I said, okay? I’d do it again. I can’t live without you, all right? No _fucking_ way. Don’t ask me to, Sammy, I _can’t_.” His voice cracks on the last word.

Sam breathes out, closing his eyes. His hand settles on Dean’s chest, right over his heart. “Dean…”

Dean takes his hand out of Sam’s hair, and covers Sam’s hand with it, holding it to his heart so that Sam can feel the steadiness of it. “I swear,” he whispers. “I swear, Sammy. That’s not going to change, _ever_. But for the record? I wanna apologize.”

Sam’s eyes fly open. “What for—”

“Gadreel,” Dean says, and Sam stiffens at the name. “I put you through that, because I needed you to live, but I didn’t know what _exactly_ it was like for you until now. And for that I’m sorry, Sammy.”

Sam’s fingers twitch under Dean’s. “I didn’t want this,” he whispers, voice breaking. He closes his eyes again, tilting his head towards Dean’s, and Dean’s heart breaks when a tear slips from Sam’s eye. “Not like this. I never wanted you to have to know what it’s like—”

Dean brings Sam’s hands to his lips. “I know, baby,” he murmurs. “I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. For everything.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” Sam says a moment later, and opens his eyes to offer Dean a watery little smile. “I forgave you a long time ago, Dean. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“All the same,” begins Dean.

“Let it go,” interrupts Sam. “Please. I just… it’s over, and I don’t want to think about it anymore.”

Dean accepts that. “Okay,” he says, and kisses Sam’s hand. “Okay, Sammy.”

Sam shuffles closer and tucks his head under Dean’s chin, wrapping his limbs around Dean. He’s too damn big for that now – has been for years – but it’s never stopped him, and Dean’s not about to complain, not when Sam’s warm and pliant in his arms.

“Just for the record, though,” Dean says into Sam’s hair a moment later. “Worst pillow talk _ever_.”

Sam laughs at that, tired but genuine. “We’ll do better next time,” he promises.

“Damn right,” Dean says, and presses a kiss to Sam’s hair. “Goodnight, Sammy.”

“’Night, Dean,” Sam says, and then yawns. He moves about a little bit until he’s comfortable, and then settles, and within a few minutes his breathing is evening out.

Dean drops off soon after, too, feeling warm after the longest time, and _safe_. It’s taken a while, but he’s home now, and he’s got Sam, and it’s really all he’s ever needed. He’s going to be all right, eventually. Maybe not now, or tomorrow, or the day after, or even the next week or month, but eventually. He’s home, and he’s got Sam in his arms – anything else, he can find a way to deal with.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and feedback are very much welcome and appreciated! alternately, using the comments box to vent about these two dorks will also do.
> 
> love,  
> remy x


End file.
